


dionysus, patron squirrel of feasts and celebrations

by bwyn, Yuisaki



Series: rings, dimes, and toys [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15164903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuisaki/pseuds/Yuisaki
Summary: Allura makes an aborted gesture as if to cling to something, which makes Shiro all the more nervous because if Allura is the apex predator made edgy by the sharp-toothed smile of a thousand year old immortal in a child’s body, well then, maybe he should have written up his own eulogy.“That may have been said,” he croaks out, “but it was a mistake. It’s only a gathering. An annual one. You know.”***In which an annual gathering is planned.





	dionysus, patron squirrel of feasts and celebrations

**Author's Note:**

> yui, the sixty-ninth squirrel, would like to apologize for the wait

 

_“—mind if I record you?”_

_“Uh, yeah, sure. Go for it.”_

_“Great! Okay, so my first question: imagine that you’re sitting in a room filled with people you don’t know. All around you, unfamiliar faces, okay? But in the corner you see a—well, maybe an acquaintance of yours, some classmate that you’ve seen around but never talked to. The room you’re in is—”_

_“Wait, what the hell does this have to do with my thoughts on the recent track meet?”_

_“We’re getting to that. Now, you’re in a room, okay?”_

_“...Yeah, okay.”_

_“So this room you’re in, it’s playing music you love. Like, Whitney Houston or Drake or Shakira or…. Wait, actually, what is it?”_

_“What?”_

_“Tell me the name of the song you hear in the room.”_

_“Uh… well, I doubt there’d be any reason for it to play Sibelius, s—”_

_“Okay, Sibelius! Let’s go with that. Now, do you get up and dance to a raging bop in a room full of strangers to Sibelius, or do you talk to your acquaintance-classmate-dude-you-see-around in the corner?”_

_“I mean, it’s pretty fucking hard to dance to classical music like it’s a ‘raging bop.’”_

_“You’re just a nonbeliever. So, classmate?”_

_“If The Neighborhood or Panic was playing, then I might go up. Otherwise, I don’t know. Does this place have a drink bar where I can get smashed?”_

_“No. No drink bar.”_

_“Then I’d leave.”_

_“You have two fucking choices, Song, don’t make me hurt you.”_

_“Classmate, then! Christ!”_

_“Okay, that’s the answer I was looking for. Thank you. Now, second question: how influential do you think your teammates were on your win at the meet this weekend?”_

_“...What the fuck did that first question have to do with this?”_

_“Focus on the questions, please.”_

_“Oh my fucking god.”_

_“Is that your answer?”_

_“I can’t—okay, you know what? Considering it was me and the waterboy who didn’t even have any fucking water and instead cuddled Her Incorruptible Mildness in his lap the entire time, I’d say it was her that influenced it the most.”_

_“So, Her Amiable Leniency, yeah? Final answer?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You sure you wanna buzz in that one?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Absolutely pos—”_

_[A yelp and a hiss of static, then the recording cuts off.]_

* * *

Picture this:

You’re exploring the residence building, but considering they’re not very exciting, let’s just say at least your hall. Anyway, you’re exploring what your residence has to offer. This happens to be a lot of rooms (singles, doubles, maybe even a quad or five), the common rooms at the end of every hall, passing the bathrooms and the RA rooms and seeing how fast it takes for the elevator to reach the second floor (27 seconds).

It occurs to you that maybe (probably) this is the reason young adults drink so much: there isn’t anything to do within the residence building. Nothing besides scrolling mindlessly online, working away, hunting for the next big attraction to roll through campus. All this especially following orientation week, when there are so many events taking place that one can wander outside and instantly have something to occupy them.

Maybe it’s because these young adults don’t know what to do with their sudden independence that they spend it increasing their alcohol tolerance.

This is, in a nutshell, the explanation given when one hazards to ask Lotor, current bookkeeper of B-Mart, how exactly it happened that a fight club evolved on the third floor girls’ bathroom of Balmera Hall.

“Instead of asking questions,” Lotor will finish with a dangerous tap of finger to chin, “how about you take a gander?”

Which then follows a very subtle reminder that there is no such thing as _fight club_.

To Zethrid, unofficial champion of B-Mart, it doesn’t matter where the phenomenon came from, only that it’s here, it’s happening, and she’s reveling in it. Competing in varsity martial arts competitions isn’t _quite_ enough. Underground duels, taking bets, and when getting caught means possible expulsion from the team or maybe even the school?

The thrill of it is a fresh taste in Zethrid’s mouth.

So picture this: the third floor girls’ bathroom in Balmera Hall, a fully functional facility during the day, with three toilet stalls and two showers and enough floor space for two people to have at it; the mirrors decorated with names and numbers in temporary paint; pool noodles, neon and cut to line the edge of the sinks and other dangerous corners; Lotor, standing off to one side, tablet in hand in lieu of an actual book—and Zethrid.

Hungry. Excited. Ready.

Waiting for her next standoff, her next battle, and her next fight with a worthy opponent.

Let Lotor deal with the logistics of keeping B-Mart a safe and secure place—Zethrid has victory to pursue. For she, top of the leaderboard, has never been more prepared for the rush that comes with Lotor looking over her shoulder as the door to the bathroom opens and smiling. This is a big one—a _worthy_ opponent—

Zethrid turns.

A cold chill runs through her body—no, it utterly douses her. Soaks her to the bone. Ice water, pins and needles frozen solid, the frigid burn of hypothermia. She didn’t sign up for this.

Zethrid spins on her heel to look at Lotor, an angry protest on the tip of her tongue. His expression stops her. A quirk of his eyebrow, the tip of his head—this is real. This fight is really going to happen.

She turns back around, shoulders stiff, to face her opponent. Truly a masterpiece of a human being: terrifying, beautiful, imposing. From the icy hair to the bright eyes and the immaculate make-up, Zethrid’s intro to photography TA truly is a sight to behold.

But seriously, nobody told her she’d be expected to face off against Allura of all people.  

* * *

“So you have no idea why that student keeps appearing at my door?” Shiro leans back to catch a glimpse of one muscled arm whipping out of sight. “At all?”

Allura’s laugh sounds like wind chimes before a storm—ominous. ”She’s a student of mine, that’s all.”

“Hm.” To Shiro, it appears as though Allura has gained another fan. One with biceps to rival his own and a black eye. Shiro doesn’t ask about the bruise, just as he doesn’t ask about the scrape carefully hidden with concealer on Allura’s knuckles, or the fact that this student of hers looks utterly besotted. Plausible deniability and all that. “Maybe you should catch her and ask her if she’s got any questions for you.”

“Perhaps,” Allura says, though Shiro knows that just means she’ll wait until her student rekindles her own courage.

Instead he turns back to the stack of marking he has to do, taking out his red pen and considering whether a circle or an X might be less of a blow to this particular student’s self-esteem. He checks the name, doesn’t remember them, and figures that whoever they are, if they can’t be bothered to speak in class, then the likelihood of them taking personally the dozens of red marks he’s about to make on their midterm is slim.

Shiro hunkers over the papers and begins.

“About the party,” says Allura.

“Don’t say the _p_ word.”

“Who else did you invite?”

“Besides you and me, it’ll just be Pidge and Matt.”

“Hm.”

Shiro looks up from the exam stained red with the blood of this student’s failing grade. “Hm what?”

“So, you know how I did that photoshoot with Keith,” says Allura as she props her feet up on the couch’s armrest.

“Yeah, I asked him how it went and he did that grumbling thing where he really wanted to say it was terrible when it wasn’t.”

“Right! I’m thinking that might be because of Lance.”

“...Explain.”

“Keep in mind I have photographic evidence of this, but they actually get along extremely well,” she says, curling a lock of hair around her finger and gazing up at Omarion, the Seventh Squirrel. “Frighteningly well. Their chemistry is...explosive. My point is, I think it would be quite fun to invite Lance as well.”

“I guess that means I should stop strategically ignoring Lance’s texts, then.”

Allura frowns at him. “You did what?”

Shiro shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t know how to turn him down! Denying him would mean I’d have sulky Lance in my office, and agreeing would mean I’d have a raging angst-fueled baby brother throwing a tantrum instead of celebrating being a year closer to death.”

“Well, so long as Lance isn’t the one organizing the thing, then I think we’re safe, no?”

“You don’t know Keith.” Shiro pauses, backtracks, adds, “That well.”

“Not yet.” Allura beams, as ominous as her laugh.

Shiro turns back to the midterms, realizes his fingertips are red, and quickly rubs the ink on the nearest paper—another midterm. He sighs at the smudge; sighs again at Dionysus, the First Squirrel, furry lord of wine and ritual madness (according to Matt, since to this day Shiro has met _maybe_ three squirrels and Matt assures him that none hold a candle to his first capture, drunk on fermented fruit and earning Matt his first scar). The squirrel gazes back at Shiro, black eyes swimming with post-exam delirium—or maybe that’s just Shiro projecting.

It’s unavoidable that Keith hates _celebrating_ his birthday. There are definitely some deep-rooted issues there that Shiro doesn’t know how to crack without breaking some other part of his little brother.

Yet, lately…

It’s taking a jump into foggy territory, and maybe he’s been huffing ink while murdering academic careers for too long, but Shiro thinks it could be worth it.

“Alright,” says Shiro, turning back to Allura’s earnest smile. “Okay. We’ll...invite others to the...gathering.”

“You mean the _party_.” Allura’s smile widens and Shiro wonders if fear is the reason his stomach flips at the sight of it—then he looks past her to see the door to his office open and a cowlick of brown hair over flashing glasses.

“Pidge,” says Shiro, suddenly horrified because, well—

Keith’s (least) favourite Holt smiles. “A party, you say?”

The fog is suddenly and inexplicably mustard gas. Allura makes an aborted gesture as if to cling to something, which makes Shiro all the more nervous because if Allura is the apex predator made edgy by the sharp-toothed smile of a thousand year old immortal in a child’s body, well then, maybe he should have written up his own eulogy.

“That may have been said,” he croaks out, “but it was a mistake. It’s only a gathering. An annual one. You know.”

“Oh, I know.” She’s too delighted. “I also happened to hear the whispers of a certain somebody who goes by Lance.” Shiro stares at her. She continues, “One teeny suggestion?”

“Of course,” says Allura, who’s gone from tense to excited in three seconds flat.

“Hold off on inviting him for...a short while.”

Allura’s excitement morphs into a frown. “Whatever for?”

“Party planning reasons. Just leave the details to me.”

And that smile is still there, growing, evolving, turning Pidge into that deceptive Eldritch monster he knew she was by the time she was four and convincing him that modern electrical sockets were safe to smash tridents into. Not just forks with big dick energy, either—tridents, as in the gum pieces she’d artfully laced with pieces of wire and steel-aluminum alloy.

“Okay,” Shiro says with a sigh. “Take it. Whatever happens, let Keith know it had nothing to do with me.”

Pidge’s smile only widens.

* * *

“So I heard a funny rumor,” Lance says as he slides into the vacant seat beside Pidge. Vacant, because Pidge demands a full circumference of empty seats around her person and, like Narti’s domain and the roaming of Her Jolly Revelry, nobody questions why that is. They just abide by the unspoken rules. Except him, because Lance is just that cool and impervious.

“Go on,” Pidge says, not looking away from her computer.

Lance frowns and leans to poke at her cheek, but then he has a visceral image of her snatching his finger and detaching it at the joint, like how a deranged little kid might behead their Barbie dolls. He retracts his finger, turtle-style. “Okay, no need to be so suspicious. I’d figure you might need this info for your Strange Things On Campus Blog, you know?”

“I assure you everything you know, I already know, too.”

“Well, Keith happens to be throwing a birthday party this week.”

“...And?”

“Which means,” Lance stresses, “he had a _birthday._ He was _born._ This means he presumably had a mother, was created out of her human womb, and wasn’t actually hatched in an egg incubated by lukewarm motor oil and discarded car parts.”

“What the fuck would the discarded car parts even do?” Pidge asks, incredulous.

Lance shrugs. “You know, like, atmosphere. Eggs have nests and shit. I figured that instead of having a nest of twigs, he’d have one made of foregone car parts and duct tape and grease.”

“No, your nest would have duct tape,” Pidge retorts. “ _He_ would have whatever magic fuses his repairs knotting the whole thing together.”

“So you admit he could’ve been born from an egg!”

“Nope. I knew his mother. She was very human.”

“How do you know that was really his mother, though?” Lance presses. “What if she was a paid stand-in? What if Keith’s dad was like, a furry? Keith really would’ve been hatched from an egg. You ever see any of Keith’s childhood photos? Him as a baby? Him being birthed from a human womb?”

“One, no, and two, _what the fuck_ , Lance.”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Lance says, mullish.

“Fine, but where are your hospital womb photos?” Pidge demands. Lance frowns. He… hadn’t thought of that. “Jesus, Lance, no one fucking has pictures of their mom pushing a human child out of their—you know. Also before you ask, _no_ , investigating his birthday party to find evidence of his non-existing egg hatching birth is not an excuse to crash the party you weren’t invited to.”

“I was too invited!” Lance protests. When Pidge shoots her _Talking Worms Would Have A Better Chance At Convincing Me, You Sniveling Coward_ stare, he deflates. “Well. Kinda. I’m working on it.”

“And by working on it, I assume you’re talking about texting Shiro non-stop and getting him on his way to block your number once and for all?”

“Shiro would _never.”_ A moment passes. “Shiro… maybe would.”

“Definitely would, if you send him one more text that isn’t academically related.”

“It is academically related when Keith and I go to school. Together. Academia. Boom.”

“If this is all the information you have, you can leave now.”

“I have more!” Pidge raises half an eyebrow—more importantly, her left one, which means he’s on thin fucking ice here—and Lance hurriedly brings out his phone. “Here. Look.”

“...A Pinterest board of Naruto and Sonic fusion in a high school reincarnation alternate universe?”

“What, no—“ He snatches his phone, flushing, and taps at the screen before shoving it back at her. “There. That. That’s my information. Not that.”

Pidge hums and scrolls. Her half eyebrow is still raised. “Just so you know, I already knew about your ongoing Pinterest boards.”

“...Plural?”

“Plural.” Pidge stops scrolling and turns to stare at him. “But your strange interests in exploring character dynamics aside, what does a Pinterest board of party ideas have to do with me?”

“I know Shiro and you are organizing this, which means it’ll maybe include a scratched CD of Mario Kart 64 and like, one opened can of Coke—“ Pidge’s half eyebrow lowers entirely, meaning she concedes the point and is thus a stunning victory for Lance “— _so_ I took it upon myself to create some ideas for the best birthday party ever.”

“I don’t think Keith—as in, Keith, sleepless, grease egg child, tequila lifeblood—would enjoy beach sand all over his apartment for a tropical themed party.”

“That’s _my_ party ideas. His start around the mark of the hippos.”

“Ah.” Pidge’s eyes narrow. “Hm. Interesting.”

Lance bounces in his seat. “So? If I get to organize this awesome birthday party, it means I’m definitely invited, right?”

“Are you sure you want to be invited because you want investigate the origin of his birth, and not because you just like him as a person?”

“What? No. Pft.” Lance turns away from her Sniveling Coward Worm stare to study a rose tissue encased in glass. “Of course not.”

“Really.”

“Really.” Her worm stare is not going to crack him. Her worm stare is not going to crack him. HER WORM STARE IS NOT GOING TO CRACK— “Fine, yes, I like him as a person, _stop staring at me like that already.”_

“You lasted almost thirty seconds,” Pidge says, impressed. “Consider me shocked and consider you invited for your sheer persistence.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, I’ll text Shiro and let him know our birthday party plans have been taken over.”

“Great, I love you, I owe you nine years of my life and my thirdborn child—“

“On one condition.”

Lance freezes. Oh, god. “What.”

“No three-tiered cake with his face printed on it,” Pidge says, then adds as an afterthought, “And no glitter.”

“But Pidge—”

“No!”

Lance frowns down at his phone and balefully swipes away whatever Pinterest monstrosity held his attention. “Fine. I would’ve thought that _you_ of all people would support this.”

“I want to humiliate Keith—for character building, of course—not lose him to the outer reaches of our solar system in a belated teenage tantrum. I need him to stick around to maximize his exposure to me, obviously.”

“For completely diabolical reasons.”

“Call it a social experiment.” Pidge smiles.

* * *

The first thing Pidge decides to do when Keith returns from work is throw a party.

Objectively speaking, Pidge is his friend. He’s known the girl for years before college, and remains one of the rare few to be associated with the Holt family enough to know all three of the Hol(t)y Trinity of Incidents, like Matt’s Incident with Buttons, Colleen’s Incident with Jalapeños, and Pidge’s Incident with Turtles. They’re still waiting on Mr. Holt’s, but Keith figures that at the rate they’re going, it’ll hit in a year and three days.

So: friend. Pidge. Objectively speaking.

Subjectively speaking, though, Pidge is not a friend. Pidge is _Not A Friend_. Pidge is—well, many things, but in relation to Keith, a fellow lurker. An ally.

Most importantly: an Enemy.

It’s a goddamn lie for anyone to claim to be Keith’s friend (subjectively) and try to throw a party for him at the same time. It’s an oxymoron. Mutually exclusive. Violates some commandment or footnote of religious text about lying.

The fact is Keith does not like parties. Friends don’t make other friends do things they don’t like. Pidge threw a party for him—or at least was colluding with Shiro and Allura, also major suspects. Therefore, subjectively, Pidge is not a friend.

“You’re not my friend,” Keith hisses at her, as the Enemy herself drags him to Shiro’s front door. He digs his heels in before they cross the threshold and tugs his wrist back to make her look at him, and says again, eyes wide, “ _You are not my friend.”_

“Years of shared acquaintance and our relationship on Facebook would say otherwise,” Pidge says, and throws the door open.

At the sound of the doorknob mercilessly hitting the wall, people—as in, people, _plural—_ look up from where they’re gathered in the living room. At least there aren’t any streamers. But still, the _people_ : Shiro, sheepish but grinning; Allura glimmering in her entirety; Matt frozen midlunge, cheese-dusty fingers reaching for the party mix.

And then—

Hunk waves his hand. “Hey!” he yells. “Look who’s here!”

Sitting beside him is Lance, more at home on Shiro’s barely used couch than Keith himself, with a grin as crooked and promising as a trickster god. Keith can already tell there will be songs sung.

Keith turns back to Pidge and scowls. “I mean, subjectively, you are not my friend. Subjectively.”

Pidge pats him on the hand. “That’s nice, Keith.” She grabs a red cup, full and waiting, and passes it to him. “Here you go.”

Keith squints. Orange-ish, bubbling liquid. “What the hell is this?”

“For you, something to help you get through the night.”

He inspects it and takes a whiff before recoiling. “Is this like, rubbing alcohol?”

“Close.”

“I hate you,” Keith says. “Subjectively, you’re an enemy.”

Then he downs the drink. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. will it take this long for the next part to come out???hopefully fukkin not. we're also working on something else because we're garbage humans <3
> 
>  
> 
> [yui](http://yuisaki-drabbles.tumblr.com)  
> [bwyn](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)


End file.
